


EX Grenade No. 3

by kelly_goosecock



Category: Death Stranding (Video Games)
Genre: Asexuality, Comedy, Fluff, stupid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:47:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24101605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kelly_goosecock/pseuds/kelly_goosecock
Summary: Heartman is, if anything, thorough. Sam could not be less interested.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 29





	EX Grenade No. 3

**Author's Note:**

> yeah what that guy said ^ don't read this
> 
> at some point in time, i wondered what might happen if sam flicked a bunch of nut all over a bt. can we get kojima to answer this question please
> 
> determined to make heartman the first "comedy asexual" archetype  
> for everyone in this game is asexual and you cannot convince me otherwise

While he understood its purpose, the funeral dirge that accompanied calls from Heartman always struck Sam as somewhat dissonant, considering how much more lively that weird prick was than some of Sam's other Bridges compatriots. Hell, Sam supposed 'weird' was a little hypocritical - and, as for 'prick', very - but there was a difference between being cursed to die endlessly and actually _choosing_ that path. Perhaps to live in that world, you had to be weird. Even after having spent his childhood surrounded by confusion and death, Sam was not prepared for the feeling of plugging into a Bridge Baby for the first time. He wouldn't have made it much further than that without a little weird in his blood. But, speaking of Heartman- 

"Sam! Good morning! I haven't woken you, I hope?"

Sam, though he was indeed awake, lay uncovered on his cot, toying with a figurine both out of boredom and to slightly delay the inevitable.

"I get up at the same time every day, Heartman. We all do."

"Right. Of course. In any case, I've got something for you to take care of before you leave. It's a little… well, there's nothing _personal_ about it, but I'm rather afraid you might have a hang-up or two when I tell you what I aim for you to do."

With a clatter, the little figurine was back on its shelf, albeit toppled over. Sam sighed. Heartman seemed smart enough to actually know where Sam's boundaries were, and if _he_ thought something was too much for Sam, it probably was. Still, that was no reason to back down. If anything, it made it seem like a challenge, and Sam took to challenges like a masochist takes to hot wax.

"What is it? Don't bullshit me, I can take it."

"Mm. Have you been finding your EX Grenades particularly useful?"

"Sometimes."

"...and you would be interested in more options as far as-"

"I said, don't bullshit me."

"Ah. Quite right. It has simply occurred to me that, having had as little time as we've had to examine repatriates like you, we've neglected to test the effects of your, eh, _'carnal_ issue'… on the BTs."

Nevermind. That wasn't a challenge, that was just stupid. Sam wished he had a hologram to glare at instead of the plain ceiling. He couldn't remember the last time he'd masturbated, or even the last time he'd _wanted to._

"Fuck you."

"I'm one _hundred_ percent serious. Think of how effective your waste products have been in the field. You might be holding the key to humanity's salvation. Well, moreso than you already are."

"I can't really help it if you guys want to cart my _shit_ off and can it up all nice n' convenient, but I sure as hell ain't rubbin' one out for you. Even if I wasn't on camera 24/7."

"Sam, this isn't a negotiation. I know you might resent me for it, but I will escalate this if you don't comply. It's just once, for now. Then we simply atomize the 'payload' and pack it into the same misting chiralium-based grenades as usual. You toss a few at some BTs, and I evaluate the findings. It's that simple."

"And then what? If it works, I'm pounding off into a cup every night?"

"The shower drain works, too."

"That's _not_ what I… look, no. Just forget it."

"I was afraid you'd say so. Unfortunately, that answer is unacceptable. I'm sorry, and I know it seems ridiculous to you, but this is potentially life-or-death."

Well, as much as he really didn't give a damn about his image vis-a-vis Die-Hardman, Sam couldn't help but imagine having to explain to Amelie what was holding him up. Given their creepy, invasive nature, he figured Bridges would likely punish him in some way for his insubordination, but there was nothing that could make them toss away their only hope, and even if they did, he'd keep heading west anyway - for her. Still… even if Bridges gave him a pass, he would still be the guy who made a big deal out of nutting into a drain for science. 'The Great Deliverer' was a slightly more enticing reputation.

"Fuck you," Sam growled again, rolling himself upright. "The shower drain?"

"Ah. Yes. Thank goodness. I really didn't want to have to explain this to Die-Hardman without any hard data to back up my hypothesis."

 _"Hard data, huh…"_ Sam mumbled, limping across the room towards his BB. _"You don't wanna see this, trust me."_

The baby only stared back at him. With the touch of a button, it was draped in black once again. Satisfied, Sam turned in place, speaking theatrically into the empty room.

"I don't suppose Bridges scraped a couple girlie mags from the ruins of America, did they?"

"...I've got some, er, _slightly_ titillating films in my collection, but nothing pornographic, I'm afraid. Anatomical drawings, too. Not the most flattering portrayal of a woman you'll ever see..."

 _"Great…"_ Sam hissed, tossing his undershirt to the side. For a moment, he stood shirtless in the center of the room, staring at his blurred reflection in the shower stall's glass. He took slow, deep breaths. He'd fought off monsters the size of fucking _buildings -_ he could find a way out of _this._

"...Sam? Something wrong?"

He could've listed off about a hundred things that were wrong about the last 24 hours of his life, but instead he just sighed.

"This might shock you, Heartman, but I'm not really in the mood."

"Your trepidation is duly noted. This brings me no more pleasure than it does you. Less, perhaps."

"You really got nothin'... dirty up there?"

"Looking closely… hm. There's some renaissance nudes… _no, that's not great-_ ...and half an episode of Baywatch? _Why do we have-"_

"Forget it. It's fine."

"Come on, Sam. Pamela Anderson? She's practically the _spokesperson_ for breast augmentation."

"Never seen fakes. Don't really want to."

"You're right, they're very off-putting. I was just trying to give you some encourage-"

At the sudden silence, Sam instinctively looked up, as if the sight of his ceiling would really tell him anything about the situation.

"Heartman? You alive still?"

"Yes. I've got some time left for now. I simply realized it may be prudent to offer _myself_ as… erm, encouragement. I hadn't considered the possibility that you may be homosexual."

Before he could find within him the will to respond, Sam latched a hand onto his temple, sighing.

"Something tells me that wasn't some kind of out-of-character joke."

"Well, a simple _no_ would have sufficed."

It _would_ have, but Sam was quickly becoming amused by the idea. Something about the whole situation was so sickeningly stupid that he had to see it through. Not only that, but he'd thought of a way to avoid the whole 'having to jack off' thing at least a minute ago, and all it took to make sure he was in the clear was one simple question. For now, though, he had to keep up appearances.

"Did I say no?" Sam called out as smugly as he could manage.

"Oh! Oh my. Well, in that case, I will provide support via this audio feed. - like phone sex."

"Never done that, either…"

"Right. Of course. Don't worry about the audio archives. I'll encrypt our traffic. The director trusts me with such privileges."

"You sound a little too excited for someone who's just in it for the science."

"Call it nerves, perhaps. 'Dry spell' doesn't quite suffice to describe my, erm, _sexual_ situation."

Enough screwing around - shit was about to go down, and Heartman was none the wiser.

"So, the grenade-making process, or whatever… is it the same as for the other kinds?"

"Yes. The specifics are somewhat boring, but if you'd like to hear-"

"So the whole thing happens right here? In this safe room?"

"Right you are. No outside contaminants - no problem. Even if they'd like to, pretty much nobody will ever come in contact with your… samples. Not even me, unless you were to hand-deliver them."

"Mm."

Poker-face master Sam Bridges did not even flinch at the confirmation of his suspicion. It seemed he would get some schadenfreude along with his morning shower.

"Are you ready, Sam? I haven't much time left."

"Yeah. I'm getting in the shower," Sam said, slipping off his pants. "If you wanted to watch… well, sorry."

"Of course. It's no bother. After all, I'm married to my research. You'd better not get attached."

 _"Shouldn't be a problem,"_ Sam muttered under his breath.

"What?"

"Nothing, just talking to myself."

The shower door slid shut behind him. He stood for a moment, and then… crossed his arms.

"Okay, I'm ready," he called to Heartman.

"I see. Are you… touching yourself?"

"Mmhm."

"As am I. I am, erm, rubbing my penis through my pants. Is that arousing to hear?"

In a panic, Sam clamped a hand over his hand to stop himself from laughing. All those hours sneaking past BTs may have paid off after all.

"Are you erect, Sam?"

"Yeah, mostly," he lied, having taken a deep breath.

"Splendid."

There went Sam's hand again, and Jesus Christ had it been a long time since he'd last laughed at anything.

"Now, Sam-"

**_Ka-THUNK_ **

The radio fell silent. As expected, Heartman had turned his warnings off. God knows if he was actually doing what he said he was.

Sam leaned forward and snorted hard, drawing a mass of phlegm to the back of his throat. Soon, that phlegm was dribbling its way down the shower drain.

"It's my DNA, alright…" Sam mumbled, listening to the distant whirr of whatever machinery came pre-packaged in Bridges's cookie cutter safe rooms. As he exited the shower, the machine in the wall spun into place, revealing two vials of god-knows-what mixed with his own spit. Surely they would make the difference in saving the world from an army of unfathomable, cosmic death entities.

………

_Somewhere in Capital Knot…_

"Can I get some confirmation, please? Are our comms back online?" Die-Hardman demanded into a microphone. _"Heartman, you silly son of a bitch…"_

 _"Seems like it was manually rerouted, sir. Heartman's request, like you thought,"_ a voice buzzed back.

"I didn't give him those privileges for nothing, damn it. Open all comms, audio and visual."

A handful of images flashed onto the director's screen. Statues, paintings, empty stretches of padded floor, and…

Oh, christ. Even eccentrics like him had their needs, apparently. Die-Hardman would have thought the guy would be used to fitting _that_ into the necessary timeslot, though. He did look fairly pathetic, keeled over dead with his pants at his ankles. Still, he could have just gone to the bathroom. Why would he try and lock out his security? The only reason would be if he was… calling someone?

"Close comms. We're all clear, here. Where's our field operatives? Hell, where's Sam?"

………

"You haven't heard from Heartman this morning, have you?" a voice boomed over the safehouse speakers. 

All Sam could do was laugh. 

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this, you can follow me at @DegenerateMoron


End file.
